


i thought of you and where you'd gone

by chartreuser (orphan_account)



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 16:57:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5135441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/chartreuser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s challenge flashing behind Napoleon’s eyes now, quick and hot. </p><p>And a wave of accomplishment always washes over Illya when he lures that out of him, because what counts for genuine on Napoleon’s face always turns out to be something else with an edge to it, something that Illya can’t pin his finger on–but he sees the affection laced in between softer emotions when he smiles, the real one, where his shoulders learn to loosen, and Illya knows that <i>that’s</i> something he can’t forge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i thought of you and where you'd gone

**Author's Note:**

> This is from [grantrogerrs](http://grantrogerrs.tumblr.com/) and [napleonsolo](http://napleonsolo.tumblr.com/)'s really cute conversation on tumblr. I decided to jump in because... because it's cute. It's so cute. Help.  
> +this is unbeta'd, because I'm in a rush to head out and I won't be using my computer until the day after tomorrow so all mistakes are on me! Also if anyone wants to be my beta hit me up. I desperately need one.

Because everything is somehow achingly different and exactly the way they should be: Illya gets protective over Napoleon. He’s not possessive, not by any case (even if Gaby would like to claim otherwise); when you familiarise yourself with the pain of a bullet—not for yourself but for another person—you’d find the habit of living in his spaces. Pretending to account for the deaths he owes you, the ones you owe him, the loans you’d have to repay together.

It’s normal, Illya would like to reason, forming attachments (though dangerous) tends to happen—even though Gaby claims otherwise.

“It’s anything but,” she’d said, eyeing him over a plate of particularly vibrant array of sashimi, “not when you look at him like you’re about to bend him over the dining table.”

He throws her one of Napoleon’s chopsticks out of spite, watching the shadows of her false eyelashes sweep over her collarbones, wondering about the infatuation and where it’d went. “I have no intention of bending _anyone_ over the dining table,” he says, and Gaby jabs the thrown chopstick into the rather odd-looking vegetable.

“Any reason why the both of you are playing with cutlery,” Napoleon says when he waltzes in, the bandages on his arm still wrapped tight, “or does it have something to do with our Peril talking about sex? Why, I could have sworn you were a nun. Going to break your vow of abstinence?”

Illya reaches for the urge to punch him. He forgets when it crosses to the point of being something he needed to _search_ for—but Napoleon tends to have a habit of slipping under someone’s skin, never to slide out after. “Unlike some people, I have self-restraint,” he mutters, biting into his portion of salmon. “I think it’s your turn for that vow, actually.”

There’s challenge flashing behind Napoleon’s eyes now, quick and hot. There’s always a wave of accomplishment that washes over Illya when he lures that out of him, because what counts for genuine on Napoleon’s face always turns out to be something else with an edge to it, something that Illya can’t pin his finger on. But he sees the affection laced in between softer emotions when he smiles, the real one, where his shoulders learn to loosen, and Illya knows that _that’s_ something he can’t forge.

“Do you like it,” Napoleon asks when they’re all done eating, and Gaby ditches them for clean-up duty, with soap covering him up to his arms, “or should I try something else?”

Illya observes him this way, with his hands covered in something other than blood, and thinks that Napoleon should be like this all the time, with all the tension flooding out of his fingers, a few flecks of sauce staining his typically put-together ensemble, and doesn’t fight the smile that surfaces.

“I did,” he says, closing in on that small distance they had between them, “it was nice, Cowboy.”

He catches the tilt to Napoleon’s mouth after, when he thinks Illya’s concentrating on that spot they just can’t get rid of on the coffee mug. It’s not too far-fetched that someone like Solo only feels safe when he’s thinking that no one else is looking, not with the fast grabbing of his fingers, the tendency to bite onto anything shiny, but he still wants to know.

\--

It’s in the dregs of August, and Illya has a new scar running along the side of his thigh. It’d cut deep, but he’s already forgotten about phantom pain and the bitterness of recent nightmares, has already fallen into the habit of feeling an undercurrent of annoyance at his profession.

“Peril,” comes Napoleon’s bright-eyed chirp at six in the morning. “Breakfast?”

Illya downs the last of his coffee before he gives an affirmation. Somehow: Napoleon sees it appropriate to walk around their safe house in what could constitute as the bare minimum, and never mind that it’s significantly cooler in the mornings—he does it anyway. Illya suspects that this will last for another five days before he returns to his bespoke shirts. Gaby’s betting on longer.

(“Put some clothes on, Cowboy,” Illya had said once when he’d bumped into Napoleon in the middle of the night, wearing his undergarments, but Napoleon had raised an eyebrow and turned to Gaby, who’d smirked at Illya and claimed that she didn’t mind. Traitor.)

 _Anyway_. Napoleon’s with that ridiculously absurd apron he insists on wearing—it’s the one with horses and cowboys, the one that Gaby saw fit as a birthday present—and the fabric underneath it is doing nothing that it’s supposed to do. It’s clinging tight to his skin, the light perspiration from the humidity outside refusing to let the fabric go. Illya resolutely does not stare.

(He’d buried his face into his chest when he’d thought Napoleon _died_ , but that bastard ended up defying expectations yet again and held a hand to the back of his head, kept him there. Illya could give some thought as to why he’d told himself he never’d wanted to leave, but he doesn’t think he can go down that route.)

“You doing okay?” Napoleon asks, in a faux-light tone that means he’s thinking that he’s doing a great job of masking the concern in his voice, “There weren’t many instruction manuals on escorting grumpy old men everywhere in a wheelchair, Peril. I’m afraid you’d have to be doing that by yourself.”

Illya doesn’t resist the urge to roll his eyes. “Be sure to come and visit me in my retirement home,” he deadpans, and watches Napoleon’s head roll back in brief laughter, the oil still-sizzling on the pan he’s frying Illya’s eggs on (sunny side-up, with a dash of salt). He’d burn this into his memory if he could, because the sun’s rising and he’s getting mocked and they’re both _alive_ , impossibly so, yet again.

“I’ll be sure to bring you food,” Napoleon says, sliding a ridiculously full plate of eggs, pancakes, hash browns and waffles in front of him. Illya doesn’t know how Napoleon expects him to finish all of this, even despite the size of him, but he thinks he’ll manage anyway.

Illya says, “I want Russian,” and pokes Napoleon’s arm with a fork, anticipating the squint that’ll immediately come after. “Not this American excuse of food.”

“Is that an attack on my cooking.”

Illya grins at him, and it must be something because there’s mild surprise on Napoleon’s face, like he’s pleased, but it straightens out to his usual smug expression before Illya can comment on anything. “It could be, Cowboy.”

“That’s it,” Napoleon huffs, resting his chin onto his hand, taking the seat opposite him. “I’m not cooking for either of you anymore. Ungrateful children, the lot of you.”

\--

The thing is—Napoleon doesn’t. Stop, that is, because Illya’s realising that he’s leaving food and pastries all over their place now, like he’s turned into some elf that children read about in their story books, leaving dishes left and right.

Gaby’s ecstatic about it, claims that it’s so much better than Illya’s attempts (he has no choice but to concede with that) and Illya doesn’t think that there’s anything to describe the way he lights up like that, like a little boy receiving birthday presents. It’s not a shock to know that some of that is still present in him, but their work takes its toll on everyone, no matter how easy going.

But he’s thinking about the comfort Napoleon’s been finding, and maybe getting a few more scars isn’t so bad.

\--

“You just like the idea of having him as your housewife,” Gaby rolls her eyes at him once, after Napoleon had retired to the kitchen to perform his magic, “but—if there’s a chance of anyone moving in together, I’d like him to host dinner every week. Two times a week is fine, too.”

Illya turns to see if there’s any chance of Napoleon overhearing Gaby imagining things. Luckily, the record is playing something he’s swaying his hips to, and he seems to be entirely engrossed in the act of dumping even _more_ salt into the soup. “No one’s moving in with anybody.”

Gaby doesn’t appear to be convinced, “but we can still have dinner, right?”

Illya resists the urge to shut his eyes. “Go marry him, if you like his cooking that much.”

He ignores the eyebrow raised at him, and gives Gaby his best unimpressed look (the one Napoleon uses on him far too often), who has her legs tucked under her, downing the contents of what’s left of the liquor, “what, and deny you the pleasure?”

“You sound like you’re very supportive of the idea of him in a marriage.”

Gaby shrugs, leaving the empty bottle on the table to curl up on herself on their sofa. “If it means not having to watch you look at him like _that_ every time, then I suppose I am.”

Before Illya could reply, Napoleon’s walking into the room, eyes darting between the both of them in confusion before turning to look at him. “Have your eye on someone, Peril?”

“Gaby seems to think so,” he says, and something like disappointment sparks behind Napoleon’s eyes.

“Long as you’re happy,” he says firmly, and turns to set the dining table, before Illya can ask him what he meant. 

\--

Illya likes his sleep. Everybody does, especially after getting shot at and receiving more than a few punches the day before. He’d thought that this would at least allow for some peace and quiet, but he’s evidently proven wrong when he wakes to see Napoleon flashing a light into his eyes. There’s a bowl of… something on his lap. Illya would doubt the odd-looking consistency he’s seeing in the container if he wasn’t so confident In Napoleon’s cooking, so he doesn’t protest too much when the spoon’s shoved into his mouth.

“What am I, Cowboy, your tasting donkey?” He mutters when he withdraws it from his mouth, holding back a smile at Napoleon’s unkempt hair. The sunlight’s hitting his face in all the right angles, and it makes him look younger, of all things, with the newly-obtained scar on his chin already fading.

Napoleon smirks. “Why else would we keep you, Peril?”

Illya huffs. “It tastes good,” he says, finally, dropping the spoon into the bowl on Napoleon’s lap, before falling back onto the pillow.

Evidently, Napoleon doesn’t take the hint, because he’s still not leaving. “Good, as in, you’d eat this, or good, as in you’d enjoy it?”

Illya resists the urge to sigh, and fails. “Why can’t it be both?”

Napoleon squints his eyes at him. “Don’t be so difficult, Peril.”

“I’m not the one that barged into my room in the middle of the night to feed me unknown substances.”

“Well, in fact, _I_ know what this sauce is made of, so I’d hardly call it an _unknown_ substance.” Napoleon waves the spoon about, waving it in front of his face, and Illya wants to punch him.

“You’ll be the unknown substance if you don’t get out in under a minute.”

Napoleon throws his head back to laugh, and Illya is suddenly reminded of their proximity, that all he’d have to do is reach out to rest his hand on his thigh, his shoulder.

But that requires reaching out in the first place, so Illya keeps his hands to himself, as he always does.

“Enjoy your beauty sleep, Peril,” Napoleon winks at him, and Illya tugs up the blanket to block away the remnants of sunlight that’s streaming into the room. The space beside him is still warm from where Napoleon had sat, one mere minute ago.

\--

“Where’d he go,” Illya asks when he finally resurfaces out of the bedroom. Gaby’s painting her fingernails, still clad in her blue pyjamas despite it being almost noon, and giving him an all-too-knowing look he’d rather not acknowledge.

“Out,” she shrugs after a while, her gaze sliding over him, “meeting a friend.”

Illya bristles. “What friend.”

“His. His friend. How would I know anything about it,” Gaby raises an eyebrow, turning her head back to her hand pointedly.

Illya sighs and makes himself comfortable in front of his chessboard. A few minutes pass before the front door opens.

“I want food, Cowboy,” he calls out lazily, because if Napoleon’s making himself the resident cook, the least he could do is take advantage of that. Illya shifts his head, knocking a pawn over to replace it with another when he inclines his head, because Napoleon’s unresponsive for once in his life and Illya ought to make a spectacle of it.

Then he looks up, and _oh_.

“You’re not Napoleon,” he says, eyebrows narrowing. Unless Napoleon had shrunk by a few centimetres, and dyed his blonde, but that seems unlikely, looking at this person’s facial structure alone.

He’s smiling, dressed in the way Napoleon would approve. Illya dislikes him already. There’s something too wholesome about him, the way he’s beaming down at Illya. Like he’s been lifted off the pages of propaganda posters, or everything Napoleon isn’t.

“No, I’m not. Agent Steve Rogers–Napoleon said I could stay here, just for a day or two?”

He looks at the extended hand, and gives a brief nod, ignoring Gaby’s exasperated expression. “Kuryakin.”

 _He even looks like a kicked puppy,_ Illya thinks, and settling on leaving Gaby to dig out any information out of him. The both of them get along like a house on fire, with Rogers is behaving _perfectly_ , not that Illya is trying to look out for any faults that he has. _First name basis with Cowboy_ , he adds one to the list, and acts cordial enough—but Gaby still sees the need to kick him under the table.

“I didn’t know U.N.C.L.E. employed such good-hearted people,” he bites out when Rogers excuses himself to the bathroom, “he can give our Cowboy a run for his money.”

“Since when did _I_ call him Cowboy?”

Illya shrugs. “My Cowboy. Whatever,” he says, turning his head away, only to crash his head into Napoleon’s stomach, who somehow saw it fit to reappear beside Illya’s seat on the sofa like some kind of ghost.

“What’s this I hear about my name,” he grins, the shit-eating kind. “Are you two arguing over me?”

Illya reddens, pulling his hand away from Napoleon’s waist. “You are hearing things.”

“Am I,” Napoleon raises an eyebrow, stepping aside to let Illya leave. “There’s only so many words that sound even remotely similar to ‘cowboy’, you know.”

“What about ‘asshole’.”

He shuts the bedroom door just as Napoleon calls out, “sounds remarkably different, Peril, I’m thoroughly disappointed, try again,” and doesn’t stop the chuckle from escaping his throat, not with his face still warm.

 

**Author's Note:**

> My writing style varies largely in this fic because I don't know what I'm doing. I reaaaaaally don't, I'm not used to plot shufusfhdkg i'M SORRY I'M SO SORRY
> 
> [tmfu tumblr](http://illyaks.tumblr.com) / [poetry tumblr](http://arquiense.tumblr.com)


End file.
